


If Love Was a River

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunters, Canon-Typical Violence, Chupacabras, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fallen Star Castiel, Hunter Dean Winchester, Hunters & Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Road Trips, Stars, Witch Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 11:20:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13856742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Never in any universe did Dean figure that Angels existed. Sure, there's demons and monsters, but not Angels. And especially, as it turns out, not strange men falling from the sky with weather-changing wings and voices that sound like the creation of the universe itself. What Dean can't understand, though, is that this man that calls himself Castiel is a star-and a star that holds the secrets of the universe in his hands.Meanwhile, Orion's Belt is missing one of its brightest stars, and Dean and Sam find themselves watching over Castiel until his wings mend and he can fly again, far away from where Dean wants him to be. Because Castiel's sudden appearance isn't accidental, not to Dean. Castiel is everything he ever wanted, inhuman or not-and Dean will do whatever it takes to make him feel at home and keep him safe, for as long as it takes, until Orion calls Castiel home.





	If Love Was a River

“ _Breaking news this hour, there have been reports of several meteorite crashes across the globe at the peak of this year’s Draconid meteor shower. So far, there has been one account of a house being destroyed in Lyon, France, and one business has suffered catastrophic damage in Los Angeles, California. Currently, there’s been no loss of life, but as soon as the sun rises, we’ll truly be able to assess how much damage has been done._

“ _I’m Laural Porter, and this is your ten o’clock news_.”

 

“Fog’s coming in,” Sam announces from the porch, two bottles in hand and a pair of binoculars hanging around his neck. Tilting his head over the back of his Adirondack chair, Dean watches him with his feet propped up on the cooler, oblivious to the sky. “You sure you actually wanna watch this?”

“Hell yes,” Dean says with a grin. Gingerly, he takes one of the bottles from Sam’s hand and twists off the cap, tossing it into the grass. “Dude, we’re out here anyway. I bet you don’t even remember the one when we were kids.”

“I was three,” Sam complains. He seats himself at Dean’s side, barely fitting into the chair’s frame. “Earliest thing I can remember is the rodeo in Billings, and that’s only because you snuck into the stables one night.”

God, if only that was the earliest Dean could remember—if only.

“Still.”

Shrugging, Dean leans back and turns to face the lake spread out before them, the tops of the Douglas firs beginning to disappear into a shroud of mist; another few minutes, and they’ll be left in the clouds and basking in the chill of an October night, and the stars will be a distant memory. They may be stuck in a less-than-ideal rental cabin in the middle of nowhere Oregon, but they have an isolated lake and enough food to make it a few more days, and enough gas to get back to Medford if their plan to hide out takes a turn. Not the most ideal location for a meteor shower, but Dean will take it for what it is.

And, most importantly, they’re alive. They’re injured, sure—Sam’s hand is sliced open and Dean’s hip is severely bruised—but they’re alive and the vampire nest is eradicated. Until they head back to Kansas, they can rest easy for a few more nights, or wherever the next call takes them.

If only Sam hadn’t insisted on bringing the radio to their watch party. “Are you even listening to that thing?” Dean asks, taking another swig from the bottle, afterward setting it atop the cooler.

“Not really,” Sam admits. Just as he reaches over to shut it off, it crackles to life again, this time with urgency.

Skeptical, Dean listens.

“ _Breaking news again: another meteor has crash-landed outside of Bozeman, Montana on Interstate 90_.”

If he weren’t still in perpetual shock and his jeans weren’t covered in vampire blood, the announcement would be enough to raise the hairs on Dean’s neck. But now, he looks to the sky, a few lone, red-tinged meteors passing beyond the fog.

“It’s probably natural,” Sam suggests, unsure of himself. Given the sudden panic in the broadcaster’s voice, Dean can’t really blame him. “Meteors always crash like this during showers, right?”

_“No cattle were disturbed, and several residents of Bozeman have visited the site within the last ten minutes, only to find nothing inside the crater. It’s entirely possible that these incidents, though sparse, are just part of the show.”_

After that, Sam switches off the radio and sets it aside, placing his shaking hands in his lap. Dean, meanwhile, leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, suddenly intent on watching the shower, however dangerous it is. Just a meteorological phenomenon, his mind supplies. It doesn’t matter that a giant rock just crash landed into a field for no perceived reason. Briefly, the thought of the apocalypse springs to mind, but he quickly shoves it aside.

 _Now’s not the time for the end of the world_ , he thinks, shaking his head. If humanity as they knew it was about to be destroyed, Dean and Sam would be the first ones to know about it.

A streak of blue shoots across the sky, disappearing past the clouds and into the fog. Sam watches through binoculars while Dean drinks, his hand still trembling around the bottle even after he puts it down. Residual nerves, he figures. One wrong move this afternoon, and he could’ve died, or him and Sam. Coming down after a hunt is never pleasant, especially after close calls; alcohol doesn’t help, but it takes the edge off and dulls his nerves enough to let him sit for more than two minutes without twitching.

If he were looking for peace, he could certainly do worse than the cold Oregon wilderness.

Said peace is broken by a shriek and a brilliant blaze of blue falling from the sky, crashing headlong into the lake and sending a massive pillar of water into the air. In its wake, Dean blinks and darts towards the water before he can think better of it. Sam follows him, shouting his name, but Dean can barely hear him. Soft waves lap at the shore, replaced seconds later by large sloshes, wetting Dean’s feet where he stands. Something fell—something as large as a meteor fell, and everything around him smells like burnt ozone and dead fish, and even worse, something all too human.

“Dean,” Sam shouts, clapping a hand over Dean’s shoulder; Dean doesn’t feel it, his attention solely on the middle of the lake and the object surfacing there, waves turning to ripples. A body, naked and torn, floats in the aftermath, large black protrusions spilling from between its shoulders. The water around it is vaguely red in the dark, only visible in the glow of the creature, light blue emanating from every inch of bare flesh.

Even face down, Dean knows what it is. And it sure as hell isn’t an Angel.

-+-

Dragging someone out of a body of water has never been Dean’s strong suit. He only knows how to swim because he has to, and he can only manage to pull dead weight because that’s how John liked his sons—strong enough to carry each other out of danger with enough leg strength to run in the process. Of course, having Sam there helps shoulder some of the burden, even in the murkiest depths of the lake, where Dean would never tread unless it meant saving a life.

That life, in this instance, is a man, or at least what looks like one. Once on the shore, Dean lowers the man’s head while Sam sets his legs onto the grass, letting the water roll off his luminescent skin and into the soil. His wings—real wings, with feathers longer than Dean’s arm—are broken, mangled on his descent and even further destroyed upon landing. Hitting water, soft as it may be, on impact still feels like concrete. Hitting solid ground would have probably killed him. It’s a miracle the guy is still breathing.

It feels surreal to stare at the creature’s face. Even unconscious, he’s attractive, with a strong jaw and sharp cheekbones, marred by a bloody gash on his forehead; full lips part in his sleep, and from between them, a white mist escapes, not enough to be worrisome, but more confirmation to Dean that he isn’t human, not by a long shot. His arms and chest took the worst of the impact, the cuts there deeper, but not bleeding as much as they could be. In fact, if Dean had to put a word to it, he would say that he’s… healing, possibly from the inside out.

“Is he a…” Sam starts, chewing his lip.

Dean knows what Sam wants to say. Sam wants him to be an Angel, or at least something that could tell him why demons took their mother, why monsters run rampant, and why their father sacrificed himself to Azazel and left them alone. As much as Dean wants to know, this creature won’t be able to tell them. Angels don’t exist—and Angels most certainly don’t fall to earth and crash into farmland and lakes and buildings for the hell of it.

No, from the glow and the heat radiating through his skin, he’s something different. Something… celestial, from the heavens. From the stars.

“I think he’s… a meteor,” Dean says, dumbfounded. He covers the creature’s forehead with his palm, his skin is feverish and sweaty; the wound, previously gnarly and gaping, is gone, leaving behind blood and otherwise unmarred skin. “Or a star—”

The creature gasps, long and low, and opens his eyes, cobalt blue and pupils dilated. Dean flinches; Sam falls back, nearly collapsing onto a wing. The glow, formerly illuminating the darkness, vanishes, leaving behind the body of a twitching not-Angel, who proceeds to wail, voice echoing off the water and permeating everything it touches. It’s like hearing a foghorn on a stormy night, or the rumble of thunder miles and miles away. Pleasant as it is, Dean’s ears ring after the creature finishes; one of them might be bleeding.

He hasn’t gone deaf, though—he can hear just fine, well enough to hear the creature speak with a human voice. “I fell from the stars,” he says, watery and distraught. “I’m… lost.”

It doesn’t matter what kind of being he is; Dean’s heart breaks for him.

-+-

This would be easier back in Lebanon, Dean decides, after they’ve both helped the creature—the star, apparently—into their cabin, past the musty furniture and into the living room. The fire is still roaring from earlier, warm enough to shake off the chill pouring in from permanently opened windows to dry the star’s wings. Sam gave him a pair of sweatpants, mostly for modesty.

Regardless, Dean can’t stop staring at him: the way the firelight casts him in red, the sadness in his hooded eyes, and the drying curls of hair at the nape of his neck. At his back, his wings hang, dejected, while Sam works his brand of healing on him, attempting to knit the bones back together with just his hands and some balm, a concoction Dean swears by, no matter if it’s witchcraft or not.

“Sammy’s a witch,” Dean says, taking the star’s hand in his, massaging life back into his knuckles. The star just closes his eyes, lower lip trembling. “We both get knocked around enough, he’s figured out a way to fix broken ribs. It’s good stuff.”

The star doesn’t respond, but just faintly, Dean feels his hand soften.

Looking down, Dean sighs, running his fingers along the star’s knuckles. “We’re hunters. Not game hunters, but… We kill monsters. Not all of them, but the bad ones, the ones that kill people.” Glancing up, he catches sight of the Star’s eyes, fire burning in the reflection of blue irises. “You don’t kill people, do you?”

Just barely, the star shakes his head.

“Good, that’s good.” Briefly, Dean stops his ministrations to take the star’s other hand, this one colder. “Do you have a name?” To that, he earns a confused blink and the twitch of a wing, nearly knocking it out of Sam’s hand.

“What are you called?” Sam asks, wing in his grasp again. “Are you an Angel?”

Before Dean can scold Sam, the star answers, “I am… no Angel. But we are their… predecessors.” His empty fingers curl into the fabric of his pants, trembling ever so slightly. “I am Castiel. My orbit was compromised, and I…”

“Fell,” Sam answers.

Castiel nods, turning his head away. Pain wracks his face, but not of a physical nature; this is emotional, rooted in his very existence—the pain of losing his family, of everything he ever knew and loved. Weightless structures in space, existing as gaseous balls of pure energy, hurtled towards Earth because of a mistake. “How did it happen?” Dean asks, thumbing Castiel’s knuckles; a scar mars the pristine flesh there, barely long enough to see, but rigid under Dean’s fingertips.

“Something… disastrous,” Castiel says, brittle. “Stars are not meant to fall, not like this. Something large hit me, and spun me, and… I fell.” He stops, blinks. “Where am I?”

“Earth.” Sam pauses to hold two broken ends of bone together, afterward dipping his fingers into the bucket at his side and coating the joint with balm; they fuse together in a flash of white, and never once does Castiel grimace. “There was a meteor shower tonight. Was that…?”

“I believe so,” Castiel mutters. His untended wing twitches feebly, wet feathers slapping against the hardwoods. “It may be rare, but when it happens, we normally find a new orbit. We don’t… land.”

“The others tonight,” Dean starts. Castiel’s wrist is fragile in his hands; if he wanted, Dean could probably push him over. “Were they stars too?”

To that, Castiel shakes his head. “They were the remnants of the…”

After that, he quiets, his statement abandoned for the time being. In the firelight, Dean watches a tear fall from Castiel’s eye, dripping off his chin and onto their joined hands. Frigid and pure, it glows in the dark, the tears of a being Dean never even knew existed. Everything he’d ever been taught wasn’t exactly a lie, but rather an approximation of what humanity understood of space and the sky above them.

Stars aren’t intangible and out of reach, formed of hydrogen and helium and a list of other components Dean can’t bother to remember. Stars are light and energy—and sitting right before him, with wings and tan skin and the saddest eyes Dean has ever seen, Castiel is more human than any creature Dean has ever met.  

-+-

That night, Dean doesn’t sleep, not with the chill in the air. The blankets aren’t enough to keep the shivers at bay, nor are his pajamas or the coat spread over his feet. Outside of his bedroom’s lone window, the fog obscures everything save for the shadow of a tree, the last of its leaves dying and falling to the earth, forgotten. A kerosene lamp sits on the bedside table, flickering with every gust through the broken pane.

Sam is asleep somewhere, in one of the other bedrooms, probably just as cold; hopefully, for his sake, he’s sleeping through it.

It’s a little warmer in the living room, though the fire wanes as the last of the wood smolders in the fireplace. But to Dean’s shock, Castiel is nowhere to be found. Three hours ago, they both left him there to let his wings dry, the bones and joints splinted together with Ace bandages and branches to stabilize him. Certainly, he couldn’t have made it far if he did leave; in his exhaustion, Castiel’s legs can barely support him, something both Dean and Sam discovered when they first tried to walk him to the cabin. And, his wings can’t easily fit through the doors. The cabin must seem like a cage to Castiel, everything he’s ever feared.

Yet, through the pulled curtains, Dean can make out the not-so-subtle arch of Castiel’s wing, black and massive like the night itself. The last he saw of Castiel, he was still bloody from the waist up, and his hair was an uncombed mess; with that in mind, Dean fills an empty bucket with lukewarm water and grabs a washrag, a towel, and a barely-used bar of soap from the bathroom.

The kerosene lamp, held in Dean’s free hand, lights his way onto the porch, where Castiel sits, wings slumped at his sides. Eyes to the sky, Castiel doesn’t move, not immediately, but he does turn his head when Dean sets the bucket on the stoop and sits beside him, towel in his lap.

“Can’t sleep?” Dean asks. Castiel shakes his head, sighing through his nose. He probably doesn’t need to sleep anyway. The lamplight illuminates the dried blood on his skin, casting an eerie glow onto his cheeks; here in the light, Castiel can’t hide his despair.

“My folks died a while ago,” Dean starts. Dipping the washcloth in the bucket, he rubs it with the bar of soap just enough that foam covers the surface of it. “Mom died when me and Sammy were young. He was just a baby, but I remember how it happened. Sometimes, I can still smell the smoke, and I can see the flames if I look just right.”

Dean holds up the washcloth, and Castiel nods in consent. Slowly, Dean wipes the blood from Castiel’s skin, revealing warm, tanned flesh beneath the red. All the while, Castiel watches Dean, tracking his movements and the gentle swipe of the rag over his face and neck, and down to his arms and chest; thankfully, the dark mutes Dean’s flushed cheeks.

“After that, my dad packed us both in the car and I never saw that house again. Least, not ’til a few years ago.” Dean wrings the rag out, rewets it. “But my point is… I know what it feels like, to lose your home like that. You’ve got no control over it, it just happens, and you gotta just deal with it after it’s over. Me,” he huffs, “I didn’t have anyone. Dad didn’t care, and Sammy was a baby. I spent my life taking care of him. I put him through school, made sure he woke up every morning and he ate enough.”

“I don’t… understand where you’re going with this,” Castiel mumbles.

“I’m saying…”

Honestly, Dean doesn’t know what he’s saying either. He has his issues, sure, but how can he possibly relate to a man that just fell from the sky? A complete stranger, someone he’s only known for the shortest blip in both their experiences? Someone brought down against his will? Dean can’t remotely even fathom what Castiel is going through—but by God, he wants to try.

“Look… I get it, okay? But everyone else, they’re not gonna look at you the same.” In defeat, Dean hangs the rag over the side of the bucket. “This is different than being alone. There’s… A meteor crashed into a field in Montana. That could’ve been you, and the FBI … A lot of bad men could be carting you off right now, and they wouldn’t care, Cas. They wouldn’t fix your wings, and they wouldn’t listen to you. All they’d see is your wings, and once they were done, they’d get rid of your body.”

Castiel’s eyes widen. The feathers on his wings bristle, standing up where they’re not bandaged down. “You’re… a hunter,” he says, the words foreign on his tongue. “You kill creatures, as you call us. Who’s to say you wouldn’t do the same?”

“Because you’re different,” Dean says.

Dean turns to face the lake, the fog obscuring everything beyond the rocky shore. In truth, he doesn’t know why he cares. For all he knows, it could be a ruse, and Castiel could be a demon, or a harpy, or something even deadlier. But for whatever reason, he trusts Castiel, and Castiel doesn’t even know his name. He hasn’t talked to Dean for more than five minutes, but Dean has already decided to save him, however he can.

“I’m no different than them,” Castiel says after a long, pregnant pause. “The things you kill. I’m not like you.” He wraps his arms around his middle, holding himself.

“I’m just… I’m scared, Cas,” Dean whispers. Absently, he rubs his own wrist, over a break that hasn’t quite healed yet; the winter agitates his bones, makes him uneasy outdoors. “I’m as freaked out as you are.” Understatement of the century, for sure. “I just watched some guy fall from the sky, and I thought you were gonna be dead when we got you out of there. You could’ve—”

“Am I a burden to you, alive?” Castiel asks, incredibly distraught. His tone breaks Dean’s heart.

“Dude, no.” Under Dean’s palms, Castiel’s shoulders burn warm, soft and strong and sure. “I’m trying to save you. Please, just… Let us help. Let me help, let me… We can get you flying again, you can go home.”

“Home,” Castiel says, solemn. Another tear falls, staining the porch. “I want to go home.”

“I know,” Dean says. He kneels at Castiel’s feet and takes Castiel’s hands in his own. “We’ll get you out of here, alright?”

Faintly, Castiel nods, his eyes slipping shut. That’s all the answer Dean needs.

-+-

Somewhere close to eight the following morning, Dean wakes on the couch to the sound of the crackling fireplace. Outside, snow is beginning to fall, flakes dusting the firs. Sam tinkers around in the kitchen, the smell of bacon wafting through the small cabin. As if on cue, Dean’s stomach growls, gnawing at itself for something more than crackers and beer.

And shockingly enough, Castiel is still there, jamming an iron poker into a few dry logs and sending fresh waves of flames and ash up into the chimney. Out of sight of Sam, Dean carefully takes the blanket off his legs and, sliding off the couch and covering Castiel’s shoulders and a good portion of his wings with it. Just barely, Castiel glances over to Dean, and Dean can see his smile, faint in the firelight.

It’s quaint, Dean thinks. Unrealistically domestic. A star is sitting on the rug poking at a fire, his witch brother is cooking breakfast, and Dean is half asleep, basking in it all.

They really need to get back home, before he starts trying to climb out of his skin.

As Dean attempts to pull himself back onto the couch, his back and wrists pop in three places; in the stillness, the noise is deafening. “Hey,” Sam says. “About time you dragged yourself out of bed. You hungry?”

“Starving,” Dean grumbles, palming his eyes. He must’ve fallen asleep around three or four, based on how sluggish he feels; he needs coffee to keep him awake, at least until he figures out if they’re leaving today or if they’re planning to squat until tomorrow. Hopefully the cabin’s owner isn’t planning to come back anytime soon.

Breakfast is uneventful—just a few pancakes and the last of their eggs and bacon—but it’s more than Dean’s had to eat in the last few days. Another reason to leave—he wants his kitchen back, with cutlery and spices and a working refrigerator. Dean’s car is parked about half a mile away, hidden underneath intentionally downed limbs on an unused service road. She’ll need a wash after this. They all will.

“We’re twenty-four hours away from Lebanon,” Sam mentions after they finish. Dean, in an attempt at comfort, offers Castiel the leftover toast, to which Castiel declines with a sigh. “Think we could make it in two days?”

“Maybe three.” Dean shrugs. He leaves the kitchen and heads for the couch, where Castiel is now seated. His wings inelegantly drape over each end of the armrests, feathers spilling onto the floor. Cautiously, Dean sits, wary about leaning onto a mending section of bone. “Unless you’re in a hurry to drive a day straight.”

“God, no,” Sam laughs. Flipping off the kitchen light, he joins them in the living room, flopping down into an oversized armchair. “Hey, Castiel. You up for sitting in a car for a while? We’re kinda not in a good place here.”

“Dean informed me last night,” Castiel says, drawing his knees up underneath him. “He said you could help me fly again, if I came home with you.”

“Did he?” At that, Sam shoots Dean a look; Dean ignores him and watches the fire. He needs more sleep, not prying little brothers. “We’ve got a whole library, we probably have some lore on stars, if you wanna help me research.”

Castiel’s wings twitch, rustling the dust on the furniture just enough to make Dean sneeze. “I’d like that,” Castiel says, sounding sincere.

“You’ll need to hide your wings though,” Sam says. “Can you…?”

“I can,” Castiel affirms. “But only at intervals. Our wings are forged of the sky, and depending on the weather, we can shield them.”

“What, like they’re made of clouds?” Dean asks. “Is that why they’re black?”

A nod. “In the sunlight, they’re invisible to the human eye. During rain showers, water seeps from between the feathers.” He stops to laugh, hollow. “At least, that’s what the others have told me.”

Sam cocks his head. “Have other stars fallen?”

“A few.” Castiel takes two steps and then sits in front of the fire, picking up the poker again and nudging the coals with it. “But they’ve always returned, at some point. Time is infinite for us. What could take a day here could be a lifetime for us. We’re… old. Older than you can fathom.”

“Older than God?” Sam asks.

Castiel nods, wings sagging. “My siblings wove tales of meeting these… humans, of their food and culture, and the contraptions they used to traverse nations. We always thought they were lying, but…” Dean watches Castiel look over his shoulder, the firelight dancing across his face. Even in his sadness, he’s beautiful, hauntingly so; it shames Dean how much he longs to touch him again, just to ease Castiel’s pain. “I never thought I’d have to meet you myself.”

“Yeah,” Dean sighs, grabbing his blanket and throwing it over his lap. “Didn’t think we’d ever meet a star, either.”

“Do you think you could tell me about your history?” Sam asks, and Dean laughs. Always the law student, always the researcher.

Somehow, Dean has the sneaking suspicion that they’ll all get along fine.

-+-

For the most part, Castiel has taken to living on the road better than Dean thought he would. He sleeps in the backseat of the Impala and in motel rooms without complaint, and he stays awake long enough to sit in a diner without nodding off into his food. Not that he eats in the first place, and when he does, it’s only upon insistence. Hamburgers aren’t his favorite, but he’ll eat waffles smothered in more syrup than absolutely necessary.

The AM stations haven’t mentioned much about the meteor shower or its aftermath, aside from multiple religious groups attempting to steal the Los Angeles meteor and a sudden spring rising from the Bozeman site, which is apparently a big hit with the cattle there. Sitting in a diner in Rock Springs, Wyoming, Dean halfheartedly watches the television above the bar, his attention more focused on Castiel tinkering with Sam’s iPhone and Sam reading whatever newspaper he could find this far out in the mountains.

“You have an app called Planets,” Castiel says after their waitress has come with their breakfast. “Is that what you call them?”

“Named after Greek gods,” Dean says through a mouthful of omelet. “They got fancy names for stars, too. Pretty much if it exists, it’s got a Wikipedia page.”

Castiel regards him with fascination, eventually turning his attention back to his food: strawberry-smothered, strawberry-filled waffles with extra whipped cream.

Over Sam’s shoulder, Dean watches a commercial for used trucks flip over to the six o’clock news. Two reporters exchange pleasantries, their words echoing through the mostly-empty diner; at this hour, it’s just them and whatever staff is awake enough to come in.

“ _The Draconid meteor shower from earlier in the week has stunned astronomers across the world this morning, with the discovery that one of the stars of the constellation Orion is missing_ ,” the woman says, too chipper given the gravity of the story.

Castiel sits up, his terror-struck expression a strong contrast to the ridiculousness of the whipped cream on his nose, and he turns to the TV, Sam and Dean’s gaze following him.

“ _It appears that that the star Alnilam has disappeared from the constellation, and astronomers at UCLA are stumped as to the cause. There’s been no word yet as to whether or not it has anything to do with this month’s shower_.”

Not once in the next two minutes does Castiel look away. Glancing down, Dean watches Castiel’s hands tremble. “Cas,” Dean whispers. “That have anything to do with you?”

Dean and Sam exchange glances, then turn to Castiel. “Cas?” Sam urges, patting Castiel’s wrist.

“I’m not familiar with the names,” Castiel says in haste. He drops his hands to his lap, red coloring his cheeks and the tips of his ears. “I belong to… a family. Belonged. Our names are different than what you call them, but… It’s possible that it was me. I’m… Alnilam.”

None of them speak for a long while, the sounds from the kitchen and the tinkle of a doorbell their only company. Sam takes his phone back and types in something after a moment, thumbs moving faster than Dean could ever manage. “I’m gonna show you something,” Sam starts, swiping down on the screen. “Just a theory, but what does this look like to you?”

Between them, Sam lays down his phone. On the screen is a picture of Orion, blue-white stars backdropped by a black sky with several white, unlabeled stars in the background. Three stars in particular, Orion’s Belt, are labeled Zeta, Epsilon and Delta—Alnitak, Alnilam and Mintaka. With a shaking hand, Castiel reaches out, tracing his nail over the belt and stopping over the centermost star.

“Me,” he says. A silver tear falls, and Dean wipes it away with his thumb, the sudden compassion welling in his chest surprising him. “That’s my family.”

-+-

Dean doesn’t see Castiel for an entire day after they arrive in Lebanon. The ten-hour drive does little to ease the tension, no matter how many tapes Dean played to drown it out. His original intention to help Castiel pick a bedroom ended the moment they passed from the garage into the war room, where Castiel promptly disappeared into the labyrinth of halls.

Disappointing as it is, Dean knows Castiel needs space. “Poor guy just got ripped away from everything he knew,” Dean says in the kitchen later that evening, hip perched against the industrial countertops while Sam finishes his half of a frozen pizza, the only thing edible in the freezer until they can head to Smith Center for groceries. “Surprised he’s held it together this long.”

“He’ll be fine,” Sam says, napkin to his mouth. “I mean… he’s strong. Anyone else, and they’d’ve probably panicked by now.”

“Still can’t believe it.” Dean pulls out his previously abandoned chair and sits, elbows perched atop the steel dining table. “We just found a star—a real star, Sammy. What’re we supposed to do with him?”

“He obviously wants to go home,” Sam says with a shrug. “Did he say anything to you about it?”

Dean muffles a yawn into his fist. “Just that he wants to leave. He’s scared to death, and he just spent three days in the backseat of a car listening to the radio and us bickering in traffic.” A laugh. “Hell of a way to introduce him to humanity.”

“He’s running up the diner tab,” Sam chuckles. Dean just hangs his head. “You really like him, don’t you?”

 _What_? What was that supposed to mean? “Geez, let me get to know the guy a little,” Dean huffs, mildly defensive.

He can’t help but consider it though, staring at his muted reflection in the table. Awkward as he is, Castiel is good company: he listens and absorbs everything they say, he’s a good research partner for Sam, and he doesn’t hog the blankets at night, much to Dean’s relief. Some people might bristle at sleeping on a motel mattress with a stranger, but Castiel didn’t make a big deal of it when Dean offered that first night outside of Salt Lake City.

Dean only suggested it because Castiel needed company, and sleeping on the couch wouldn’t have done either of them any favors. Dean had to drive the next morning, and Castiel had looked next to tears the entire way. “It’ll get better,” Dean told him around two that morning, thumbing away the tears spilling into the crease of Castiel’s nose. Castiel just blinked and let out a breath. “You just gotta let us help you.”

“I’m not used to this,” Castiel admitted. In hindsight, Dean remembers the glow of the neon signage in Castiel’s eyes, blue painted pink and yellow, and the sadness and wonder on his face. “The… gravity of living.”

That was three days ago. Now, he’s out of sight, if nowhere near out of mind. “I’m just worried,” Dean mutters, palming his eyes. “Aren’t you?”

“A little,” Sam sighs. “But he’s in good hands. We can fix him up, and if he still wants to go, we can help him fly. If he fell anywhere else…”

“It’d be a different story,” Dean finishes for him. Sam nods. “Kinda glad we found him too.”

“I know.” Sam offers him a smile, then pushes his chair back and stands, his empty plate in hand. “He’ll come around. Just let him come into his skin a bit.”

Dean nods, wary. Castiel will come around—but when, is the question.

-+-

A heavy weight sprawls out on the other side of Dean’s bed the next morning, an arm flung over his chest and soft snores sputtering every few seconds, accompanied by deep sighs. _It can’t be Sam,_ he thinks; _Sam snores way louder than this_.

No, this is quieter, not nearly as annoying as Dean would’ve figured. Castiel is a light sleeper, he’s learned, his body probably not entirely attuned to eight hours of sleep. But when he finally passes out, he sleeps until Dean has to forcibly wake him, usually by flicking his ear.

Now, though, in the quiet of the morning, Dean can’t bear to wake him. Rolling over, he catches the utter peace on Castiel’s face, and briefly wonders when he snuck in, and how he got into bed without waking Dean or rolling him off the mattress. It wouldn’t be the first time in the last week, after all. Castiel deserves the rest, even if he’d prefer if Castiel would sleep in his own room and not take up half of his mattress.

“Hey,” Dean rumbles, rubbing his eyes. In the dark, he can just barely make out Castiel opening his eyes and shuffling ever so slightly in an attempt to bury himself deeper in the blankets. “How you feeling?”

“I’m sorry I left you,” Castiel answers instead, reaching up to cover his face with a pillow. “I was on the roof.”

Dean blinks, briefly wondering if he should be worried or not. “You find anything interesting?”

“I’m not in Orion.” Castiel pulls the pillow closer, eventually holding it to his chest in semblance of a hug. “I looked in the telescope, and there’s… nothing there.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispers. Sam isn’t here to watch him cradle Castiel’s cheek. Small blessings, really. Castiel heats under Dean’s touch, faintly shivering; he’s never really stopped, not since they pulled him from the lake. _Maybe it’s a star thing_ , Dean thinks, or maybe he’s nervous. “Can we do anything?”

Slowly, Castiel exhales through his nose, eyelids fluttering just as Dean pulls his hand away. “I’m not sure you can,” he admits, holding his pillow tighter. “Of the ones that have fallen, only a few returned, and no one spoke of how they flew. I’m afraid… this may be my new home.”

“We can help, if you want,” Dean offers. “Get you back up on your feet. You don’t even gotta stay here, if you end up stuck. We can get you a house, a job… We just want you to be safe.” _I want you to be safe_ , Dean wants to say; _you deserve more than us. You deserve more than having to see us bleed, to watch us suffer_. Castiel is too holy, too pure; Dean can barely touch him without shame burning in his chest. “You can stay here, too, if you wanna. We got plenty of bedrooms.”

“I’d like that,” Castiel says softly. “Just… until I can fly. You may need to change the bandages again.”

Dean chuckles, thanking the darkness for hiding his blush. “I can do that. Hey.” Reaching over, he pats Castiel’s shoulder, squeezing the bare skin there. God, what if he was naked? Quickly, Dean shakes off the thought, hoping his embarrassment doesn’t show on his cheeks. “I’m going into town later, gonna pick up groceries. You wanna get some stuff to decorate? Y’know, make yourself at home and all that.”

Just barely, Dean can see Castiel smile. “I’d appreciate that.”

-+-

Shopping with Castiel, as Dean learns, is like following a disinterested puppy in the rain. He doesn’t really have a preference for clothes or food, and he doesn’t have any hobbies. Day by day, his mood changes, as well as his interests. On the road, Castiel enjoyed watching movies at midnight while Sam was asleep and Dean was just awake enough to humor him; when they first arrived home, Castiel wanted to do nothing more than categorize the storage rooms in alphabetical order; yesterday, he wanted to learn to cook.

None of which are hobbies, really. They’re just things to keep him occupied. “C’mon,” Dean says in the electronics department of Wal-Mart, rubbing the bridge of his nose while Castiel reads the back of a CD. “You didn’t do anything up in space? Like, gossip about other stars, make up stories, shoot the shit?”

“We certainly had the time,” Castiel muses, replacing the CD on the rack and picking up another. “But I never listened.”

Dean blinks, leaning over the handle of his shopping cart. “How come? Same thing over and over?”

“We were far away,” Castiel explains. “Existing as a star is… lonesome. If we’re close, we’ll communicate, but otherwise, we exist.”

 _Wow_. Not the life Dean would want to live. “So this is the first time you’ve talked to anyone, really?”

For a moment, Castiel looks to the ceiling, jewel case in hand. “Yes,” he decides. He places the CD, labeled _The Greatest Hits of Alan Jackson_ , into the cart. A part of Dean dies inside, and not just from the music choice. “I’ve existed for longer than the universe, and you and your brother are the only creatures that have ever looked my way.”

Dean sighs. “Oh.”

Really, what is he supposed to say to that? ‘I’m sorry it had to be us’? Surely Castiel can do better than two deadbeat hunters living underneath an abandoned power station in a town of barely three hundred, with a storage unit full of unpacked baggage and enough blood on their hands to fill a lake. And now, they’re taking care of a fallen star, and Dean is taking him shopping in Junction City, like everything is normal and Castiel isn’t wearing holey jeans and one of Dean’s too-washed shirts.

The whole thing would make his father roll in his grave. _You should’ve killed him when you found him_ , John would’ve said. _He’s no good to the world alive. He can’t even get home, what’s he gonna do here_?

The thought makes Dean’s skin crawl; the last thing he could do now is kill Castiel.

“I think I’d like… a puzzle,” Castiel wonders aloud, watching the row of flatscreens on the wall, all airing the same football game in varying definitions. “These are better than the ones you have at home.”

“Damn straight,” Dean laughs. “I can barely afford groceries, let alone some 4K HD whatever they’re calling it these days.”

Castiel thoroughly raids the board game aisle while Dean watches with horrified amusement; eventually, he ends up with two two-thousand piece boxes and Monopoly, and Dean can already see tonight going sideways if all three of them get a hold of it. The home decor department suffers considerably less, though Dean comes away with a foldable laundry hamper and a new pillow, while Castiel hoards several packages of glow-in-the-dark stars. “There’s no light in the Bunker,” Castiel says, somewhat mournful. “I thought…”

Dean pats his shoulder, squeezing tight. “I get it,” he whispers, putting on his best grin. “Took me and Sammy a few weeks to get used to it when we first moved in. I hung out on the roof a lot, just to get some sun.”

“I’m used to the darkness,” Castiel admits. “But I’ve come to like the sun.”

“Yeah.” Squeezing one more time, Dean lets him go and motions to the cart. “You wanna get some jeans?”

After another half hour of rummaging through racks upon racks in the men’s section, Castiel ends up with three pairs of jeans and a pack of t-shirts, a black suit and several odd-colored dress shirts, several sets of pajamas, and a tan-colored trench coat he refused to relinquish. “It’s cold in the evenings,” he says, throwing it atop their ever-increasing pile of purchases.

“I think it suits you,” Dean offers, flushing with the smile Castiel gives him. “Y’know, if you dig the Pinkerton look.”

“You do,” Castiel says. Dean covers his laugh with a cough.

One perk of being contracted to hunt is that it pays cash in stacks of tens and twenties. With all that they save on utilities, Dean has built a considerable nest egg over the last year, enabling him to shop at his leisure, sometimes. Thankfully, Wal-Mart is cheap, and Dean still has a leftover gift card from their job in Wichita two months ago.

 _These are the essentials_ , Dean convinces himself. Castiel needs them, and for the foreseeable future, Castiel is staying under their roof, at least until he decides he can fly again and return to his constellation—his family. As much as Dean to be, he’s not Castiel’s family.

Castiel’s placid nature deteriorates while they check out. Initially, Dean passes it off as claustrophobia, judging by how antsy Castiel appears and how he won’t ever look up, not even while Dean chats up the cashier that always remembers his name. Or maybe it’s the noise: the rattle of carts rolling by, the steady chatter emanating from every counter, scanners beeping. Castiel shakes while they put the bags into the cart; he keeps shaking when they exit the store.

Over-sensitization could be the culprit, Dean realizes belatedly. Aisles are different than being shoved into a register, open and empty with more than enough room to move around. Registers are filled with magazines and gift cards and candy and useless impulse buys. For a creature that spent most of his life in the emptiness of space, though, Castiel remains stone-faced, at least until they shove everything into the trunk and climb into the front seat.

Dean doesn’t start the engine, not immediately. Not out of fear, but just to give Castiel some quiet behind closed doors, away from shoppers and stacks of rag magazines and way more choices than necessary. Minute by minute, Castiel’s color returns, and the tremors wracking his hands begin to calm.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Castiel mumbles, running a hand through his air. His nostrils flare with his inhale. “And at the same time, it does.”

“Happens to the best of us,” Dean reassures him, patting Castiel’s wrist. “Lots of people have problems with crowds, it doesn’t mean anything’s wrong with you.”

Still, Castiel shakes his head. “I was fine at the diners and rest stops. I don’t understand why this would…”

Dean squeezes Cas’ hand, and feels the skin underneath his own flush; Castiel’s pulse beats against his fingertips, wild and restless. “It’s a lot to process,” Dean says. Slowly, Castiel nods. “Maybe we should’ve done this slower, gone to a park or something.”

Never once did Dean think about how Castiel might react in the general public, surrounded by dozens if not hundreds of people at a time. It makes Dean’s skin crawl on the best of days; he can’t even imagine how Castiel must feel, having never experienced a mad rush before.

“I’ll get used to it,” Castiel says, more of a question than anything. In return, Dean nods and offers a shy smile.

Absently, he knows he’s still clutching Castiel’s wrist, but Castiel hasn’t once told him to stop. He hasn’t even acknowledged it—until Castiel covers his hand with his own, fingers curling into Dean’s palm. Something about it strums a chord in Dean’s chest, suddenly too tight to breathe.

“Are all stores like that?” Castiel asks after he pulls away, shuffling in his seat. “Cramped.”

With a grin, Dean turns the key and listens to the engine turn over. “Just the big box stores. Costco’s worse.”

Horror flashes across Castiel’s face, just for a moment. “I can only imagine.”

-+-

“He’s thinking about restoring the telescope,” Sam mentions later that night in their library—an actual, honest to God library, with shelves and sliding ladders and everything—while pilfering for any books relating to celestial bodies and setting them on one of the two mahogany tables. “Did Cas tell you that?”

“Hasn’t told me anything,” Dean says, mouth full of cheeseburger. “He kinda freaked out in the checkout, think the crowds got to him.”

Sam shoots him a sympathetic look, lips turned into a frown. He sets down his newest collection, a thick stack of leather-skinned books, all reading _Bodies of the Heavens_. That’s specific enough. “I didn’t even think of that,” Sam mentions.

Shrugging, Dean shoves a potato chip in his mouth. “I didn’t either. He did fine at that flea market you wanted to stop at.”

“It was empty, though.” Which, true. “It’s only been a week, he’s probably still trying to get his bearings. Anyway.” Sitting, Sam pulls a book from the stack and flips it open, covering his nose from the wave of dust that wafts up. “He thinks there’s a mirror out of place. If he gets it up and working, we can probably plot out galaxies no one’s even seen before.”

“God, you two are perfect for each other,” Dean jeers, hating how easily it rolls off his tongue. Sam just rolls his eyes. “You’ve finally found someone you can nerd out with.”

“Yeah, well, don’t act like he isn’t something to you, too.” Sam turns the page, oblivious to the heat searing Dean’s face. “You’re not as standoffish with him around. You’re not as jumpy as you were last week.”

Deflecting, Dean throws himself back into his dinner. What does Sam know anyway? Sure, they may have only known Castiel for a week, but Dean’s done the most for him: bandage his wings, take him shopping, make sure he’s fed and clothed and— _oh_.

“I’m not saying you like him like that,” Sam says, idly flipping back and forth from the table of contents, “but you’re… softer around him. You like taking care of him.”

“He’s like a baby,” Dean mutters, poking at his plate. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“He does, maybe more than you know. Look.” Leaning back, Sam rubs his eyes. “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just saying… It’s nice to see you, y’know. The real you, not the macho showoff blasting the stereo because you think it makes you look cool.”

“I am cool,” Dean huffs, his heart no longer in it.

How is he supposed to have this conversation when he barely even knows what Sam is going on about? There’s nothing between him and Castiel—at least, nothing he can make out. Sure, there’s been prolonged touches and yearning glances and conversations just between the two of them, but it doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean anything—right? They’re just friends, and Castiel is a literal star. The last thing he needs is Dean fawning over him.

“I’m not gonna judge you,” Sam sighs. At least there’s that. “I just… don’t wanna see you hurt if he decides to leave.”

The words hit Dean hard. How could he forget that? Forcibly, he reminds himself that Castiel is temporary. Castiel is only staying with them because he needs to recover; after his wings are mended, he’ll fly home without a care in the world. _Don’t get attached_ , his father’s voice echoes. _He doesn’t need you, and he never will_.

God, even in death, Dean hates his dad.

“I’ll be fine,” Dean lies, head in his hands. The remnants of his dinner look unappetizing now, with the knots in his stomach. _I should’ve killed him when he fell_. “You find anything?”

“Just a bunch of observational stuff,” Sam comments. “Give me five minutes and I might have something.”

“Good.” Dean scrubs his face. Pushing his chair back, he takes his plate and heads for the kitchen. “I’m gonna go check on Cas, you mind? Or are you gonna follow me?”

“Fuck off,” Sam laughs. Dean can’t help but join in.

-+-

The bunker is dark. That’s the only word to describe it. Built underneath an art deco monster of a power station by a secret society and endowed to them with the passing of their long lost grandfather—an explanation that still gives Dean whiplash—it consists of a labyrinth of halls spanning into individual wings: living quarters, exercise areas, medical suites, bedrooms, and even a lap pool, where Dean spends most of his summers just to keep cool.

But away from the fluorescent track lighting and indecipherable warding, it’s dark. Pitch black and terrifying on the best of days, the threat of something sinister lingering around corners and in Dean’s periphery. Nothing else lives here, and no monster can make it inside without being seriously mangled in the process, but the hairs stick up on the back of Dean’s neck anyway. This may’ve been their home for two years, but sometimes, it still creeps Dean out to no end.

Stepping into Castiel’s room, though, might be enough to change his mind about the place.

Stars dot the ceiling and the uppermost walls, all of varying sizes and pointed in different directions, all glowing a steady, luminescent green; if he looks hard enough, Dean swears he can see them pulse. Underneath them, Castiel lays in bed, arms spread out on either side, new sheets tucked around his waist. The few knickknacks he has are scattered atop dressers and a desk and an old JVC television: small figurines and a few of Dean’s old Matchbox cars Castiel took a liking to, candle holders with no candles, and a weather-eaten stone gargoyle salvaged from the roof.

This may not be home for Castiel, but at least it looks lived in. Sure, the corners of the room are dark, but this is… different. Warm in a way Dean can’t describe, like a dance on a summer night after sunset. A fleeting memory of a time he can’t recall, a past he longs to forget.

“You really did go all out,” Dean whispers, closing the door behind him, sealing himself into the glow. Briefly, Castiel lifts his head, only to drop it back onto the mattress. A smile flutters across his lips, just faintly. “This what you were doing all day?”

“I needed to… decompress, I think,” Castiel says. He pats the mattress, beckoning Dean to rest beside him. “I named them all.”

Dean huffs a laugh and crosses the room, collapsing beside Castiel. The mattress squeaks under their combined weight, louder than the heater kicking on, warm air pouring in from the roof vent, the only space where no stars exist. “All of them?” Dean asks.

Castiel nods. He points at a constellation in the corner, one Dean immediately recognizes from books and Google searches. “I used to look like that,” Castiel whispers, dropping his hand to rest beside Dean’s, close enough to touch. “According to your pictures, at least. Perspective is strange, living one way and seeing yourself in another light.”

“It’s gotta be heady,” Dean mentions. Castiel agrees. “Do you miss it though? I mean… you’ve been down here a week and you’ve already seen more of the country than a lot of people’ll ever have the chance to.”

“It’s beautiful here,” Castiel admits. He pulls the blankets tighter around him, shimmying deeper underneath. “I don’t feel as alone as I…” Slowly, he exhales. Dean watches the stars breathe, a rush of green spreading across the ceiling. Sometimes, he forgets that Castiel has more than wings. Over the days, Dean has learned that Castiel can do things, like manipulate the wind and breathe life into dying plants. Water warms in his hands; fires cool with gentle guidance.

Despite Dean’s best instincts and a life spent denying his own desires, one look from Castiel melts him.

“I enjoy your company,” Castiel confesses. Just barely, their temples press together, shoulders brushing ever so softly. He’s warm, even hotter than Dean remembers, and the stars twinkle with every breath. “You’ve done nothing but care for someone you’d never met.”

“That’s what I do,” Dean says, despite his racing heart and the itch to reach out and touch. “Sometimes I think I care too much.”

“That’s not a bad thing,” Castiel says. Their pinkies touch, Castiel’s curling around his own.

Everything he says, everything Castiel stands for, is the opposite of everything Dean has ever been taught. No matter how hard he tries to fight it, he can’t help but be afraid. Castiel isn’t human; he’s not even from this planet. Yet, Dean has allowed him into his space, into his heart, without batting an eye. “I’m scared,” Dean admits with his eyes closed, clutching Castiel’s pinky tight. “Can I say that?”

“You can,” Castiel says. “But why?”

“Just…” Reaching up with his free hand, Dean covers his eyes. “I grew up hunting things, killing them without thinking, because my old man told me to. They killed people, only because they were trying to survive, and dad said that gave us the right to lop of their heads. And I look at you…” He pauses and spreads two fingers to look between them. “And I think he would’ve told me to kill you without even knowing what you are, because you’re…”

“Weak,” Castiel suggests, somewhere near heartbroken.

“You’re not weak,” Dean amends. “It’s not that. You’re nice, and kind, and you like waffles and you taped a bunch of stars to the roof, and… you’re everything my dad would’ve hated, because you’ve never done anything wrong.”

“I’d like to think that’s a good thing,” Castiel says, mirthless. “You’re scared because I’m…”

“Because you’re not human,” Dean sighs. He closes his fingers again, hoping Castiel doesn’t notice his breathing. “And it just… freaks me out sometimes, because we’re close. I feel like I’m… fraternizing with the enemy or something.”

“I wouldn’t hurt you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Castiel says.

The sheets rustle and the bed shifts when Castiel moves, and Dean finds Castiel straddling him, their faces close. In the steady emerald glow, Dean finds himself lost in the shadows of Castiel’s eyes and the subtle curve of his cheeks. Everything about him is soft and so utterly human, yet otherworldly—too perfect to exist, and too perfect for Dean.

“Stars aren’t meant to harm,” Castiel whispers. “We are born, and we die, and we light the universe in our own way. Some of us just light your sky, and some of us heat your skin, giving you life. We are not born to kill.” His hands cup Dean’s face, thumbs sweeping just under his eyes; Dean wants to cry from how it feels to be adored. “We are love.”

All at once, the stars begin to pulse brighter, casting Castiel in the gleam; for the briefest of seconds, his eyes glow, and Dean’s heart skips. Dean’s lips part, his skin flushes, and everything burns when Castiel kisses his forehead, gentle as a breeze.

Dean aches. “Do you... love me too?”

“I love everything, and everyone.” There’s another pulse of light. Dean’s eyes sting, threatening to overflow. “You, in particular, are…”

“You don’t know me,” Dean whispers.

“I want to,” Castiel says, like it’s a praise. “You’re worthy.”

Dean blinks, wet-eyed. “I’m…”

Adoration washes over him, just as the shame begins to build and threatens to rattle his bones free of his body. He can’t—can’t what, he doesn’t know. Can’t listen, can’t admit, can’t be loved, especially by someone of Castiel’s magnitude. He’s tried over the years, desperately yearned to meet the person of his dreams and fall in love, for someone to think the world of him. And now, someone loves him, and he’s terrified.

“I can’t,” Dean sobs, and pushes Castiel away, onto the other side of the bed. His own room is safer. It’s dark and quiet, decorated with his own things, with just the heater to keep him company—that and his own thoughts. “I can’t… I…”

“Dean.” Castiel catches him just before Dean makes it to the door, wrist in hand; just barely, Dean keeps himself from yanking it away. “You don’t have to believe me, but—”

“I’ll come back,” Dean blurts. Only then does Castiel release him. “I’ll come back, I swear. I just gotta…” _Think_. He needs to think, needs to breathe and process. Needs to understand that just because Castiel loves him doesn’t mean that Castiel loves him _like that_. And if he does, then that’s another conversation for another day.

He’s tired. He needs to sleep, and tomorrow, they can talk. “I’ll see you in the morning?”

Castiel nods, albeit warily. “I’ll be here.”

-+-

Castiel is gone the next day. Or at least Dean can’t find him, no matter how many rooms he searches or how many halls he wanders down. He’s not in the pool, not hidden in the storage rooms, not in the kitchen. He and Sam aren’t watching the NASA channel like they do almost every morning. The bedrooms are empty, and the stars no longer glow in Castiel’s, save for a small piece near the plug-in night light.

The only place Dean hasn’t checked, and the one place he never wants to step foot, is the rooftop observatory. Because along with a crippling fear of flight is his equally debilitating fear of heights, and the bunker stands at least five stories off the ground, all concrete walls and sheer drops into the Kansas plains. His stomach rolls every time he thinks about it.

 _Just as long as you don’t look down, you’ll be fine_ , Dean tells himself, opening the door labeled Observatory and climbing the spiral staircase to the roof.

Over the days, Castiel has spent his time here, or so he’s told both of them. Mostly fixing the telescope, but sometimes, according to him, absorbing the sunlight. Something about healing his wings or realigning with the universe; whatever the reason, Dean forgets it the minute he steps through the rooftop door.

There, with his legs over the edge, sits Castiel, shirtless and wings bared to the morning sun, but not the wings Dean saw at the lake. No, they’re made of… leaves. Orange and gold and red leaves extend in a blanket from the broken arches of bone. A few fall off with every breeze, blowing across the roof and sticking to the observatory’s glass windows; one lands square in the middle of the telescope.

And Castiel looks… happy. Happier than Dean has ever seen him, eyes closed and head tilted to the rising sun, leaf-wings rustling and crackling like the sound of footsteps in the forest.

He’s beautiful—and once again, Dean is afraid.

“Mornin’,” Dean calls out, clearing his throat. Castiel casts a glance over his shoulder and grins, all teeth and crow’s feet. Pulling his legs back onto the roof, he shifts his wings to accommodate Dean. “You’re… part tree?”

“The leaves are falling here,” Castiel explains. “I can’t tend to my wings indoors unless I’m in the library, but Sam was doing something with a mat and a sound box.”

“Yoga,” Dean laughs. “He’ll do that every now and then.” Rubbing the back of his neck, he glances over to Castiel, who is now looking to the sun with wonder. “I’m sorry I freaked out,” Dean says in haste. Leaves touch the back of his neck, and to the best of his ability, he ignores it. “Normally it’s the other way around with me.”

“Being loved?” Castiel asks, completely genuine.

It hurts Dean’s heart how innocent Castiel is sometimes. “You came out and said something that I didn’t even know… I felt too,” Dean says. “Am I that easy to read?”

“Not particularly.” Castiel shrugs. “I can gauge your emotions, but not… why you feel things. I could tell you felt something for me, but you weren’t willing to admit it.”

“So you pushed me?”

Castiel smiles again, humored. “Somewhat. I mostly wanted you to know. Whether you felt anything in return was up to you, but judging by your reaction…”

“I do,” Dean starts, shaking his head. “I do. Feel something, I mean. But I’m just… You’re a star, Cas.” Leaves tickle his neck, caress his shoulder; Dean flushes, but revels in it. “And stars don’t love guys who hunt and’re too hung up on their pasts some days to function.”

“Others might not,” Castiel says, hushed. “But I’m not my siblings. The rules aren’t expressly written, if we were to fall, that we don’t pursue what our hearts tell us.”

“So you’re just winging it?” Dean chuckles, much to Castiel’s amusement. “Can I just… ask you one thing?”

Castiel cocks his head to the side, brows furrowed. “What is it?”

This is it—this is the question Dean never wanted to ask, but the one he mulled over all night into the dawn. “When you say you love me, is it... romantic, or…”

At that, Castiel lifts his head, eyes closed to the sun; his wings crackle, and suddenly, Dean smells chimney smoke and spice. “I’m not sure,” he hums, shuffling a bit. “I know I love you, as I love every living thing. I love your brother, and the cat that you feed but you refuse to touch. I love our neighbors and strangers, and the people I’ll never meet. But there’s something about you that’s… different.” His eyes gleam blue in the daylight, even deeper than before, a rich cobalt Dean could lose himself in. “You’re special. I can’t explain it, but I’m… inexplicably drawn to you.”

Dean can’t help the redness that flushes his cheeks and the heat that rushes through him. “I’m… the same,” Dean admits, ducking his head. Reaching out, Castiel cups Dean’s cheek in one hand, running his thumb over the scar just beneath Dean’s eye, covering the bridge of his nose. One of many, and well more than enough to be ashamed of, but Castiel treats him with kindness, like he’s pure.

Nothing about him is pure, but maybe if Castiel stays, he can start to believe it.

And therein lies the fear. “You’re gonna leave, though,” Dean says, barely loud enough to be heard above the breeze. “You’ll… Once your wings are better, you’re gonna go back to being a star, and…”

“Whether or not I go back has no bearing on you as a person,” Castiel soothes. Dean closes his eyes, Castiel’s finger teasing just beneath his ear. “I can’t shake who I am, who I was. I’ll always be a star, but I’ll always be… different, because of you.”

Dean huffs. “Like I broke you?”

“You changed me.”

Castiel’s lips taste of hot chocolate and marshmallows, and Dean struggles not to cry as they kiss, surrounded by wings and the warmth of the sun.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Dean,” Castiel says when they part, his lips still so close, not close enough.

“Stay, then,” Dean begs. He can’t even look at Castiel now, not even with Castiel’s forehead against his, hands cradling his face. His own hands, he keeps low, clutching Castiel’s knees. “Please, just… Let me be selfish for a while? It’ll hurt like a bitch, but I wanna keep you. And if you go, I’ll…” _Wait for you_ , he wants to say— _I won’t forget you_. In the week Castiel has been there, Dean has grown used to his presence, mending his wings, their pointless conversations at any hour of the day. And no matter what, Castiel treats him with admiration.

The gentlest soul Dean has ever met. Losing him will be the worst heartache he can imagine.

“I can’t promise I’ll always be here,” Castiel mutters with surety. “But with you, I’m happy. And I’ll shine brighter now, knowing I’ve met you.”

It’s not assurance, nowhere near a promise, but Dean takes it for what it is and clings to it, and lets himself fall into Castiel’s embrace without a fight. He’s warm, and soft, and his heart beats against Dean’s ear wildly, like a storm.

-+-

At least twenty cows and two people die a week later, all in the New Mexico desert south of Albuquerque. All drained of blood, all abandoned in the field to rot in the sun. Conspiracy theorists claim it’s aliens; local governments call it a tragic farming accident resulting from a sudden and undetected methane leak.

Dean, however, knows better.

“We’ll show you the ropes,” Sam explains to Castiel while they pack the Impala, duffel bags thrown atop the locked compartment in the trunk. “Chupacabras are a pain in the ass, but they’re easy to kill.”

“Are they bad?” Dean overhears Castiel ask. His heart twists mildly in his chest, and fighting the urge to back out, Dean steels his jaw. “They kill, but…”

“They’re not like a lot of creatures,” Dean says, leaning his hip against the quarter panel, arms crossed. “They’re like killer crocs. Cows don’t move fast and they’re mostly blood, so they normally go after those, but sometimes humans get involved because they’re trying to save their livestock. Anything that moves, they’ll get their fangs in it.”

“They were never human,” Sam goes on. “Vampires once had a soul, and the same with werewolves and wendigos. Things like chupacabras, you can’t let them live, because they’ll just keep breeding.”

“They’re like rabbits.” Dean rubs the bridge of his nose. “Normally if there’s one, there’s bound to be more around.”

“So they’ll start feeding on humans,” Castiel ventures.

“Once the cattle isn’t enough, yeah,” Sam confirms.

“They like a challenge.” Slapping the roof, Dean gestures towards the car. “Cas rides shotgun.”

Thankfully, Sam doesn’t put up a fight, aside from an eye roll. “Long as I don’t have to drive through the night, I’m golden.”

Albuquerque is about eleven hours from Lebanon in the daylight, barring traffic and unforeseen circumstances. Due to the magnitude of the event, though, Dean decides to drive through the night, giving them enough time to make it to Escondida before the sun rises. If the chupacabras are as hungry as they think, they’ll be out in the daytime, harassing cows and farmers alike. The sooner they’re dead, the sooner they can return home and Dean can sleep in his own bed again.

Castiel, remarkably, is good front seat company. He doesn’t talk much, he doesn’t attempt to change the radio station every five minutes, and he doesn’t complain about Dean’s choice of cassettes. Tonight, Dean plays the music low while they pass under countless street lamps, high beams on until they pass through a sleeping city. The hours tick by slowly, and Dean keeps himself awake merely by smalltalk and concentrating on the steady glow Castiel emits in the dark, his skin a vibrant gold. If anyone drove by, they would probably swear they saw a ghost. Or an Angel.

Sam, thankfully, sleeps the entire way.

“I want you to see something,” Castiel says at a gas station in Raton, hands on the dashboard while he looks out of the windshield.

Dean slides back into the driver’s seat, ready to head out on the road again after a stop for snacks and a bathroom break. “Is now really the time to stargaze?” Dean asks under the fluorescent glow, cranking the engine once again. Admittedly, out in the middle of nowhere, now is probably the perfect time to see whatever Castiel wants to point out.

Castiel just gives him a look, all pouting lips and wide, sad eyes. One day, Dean will hate himself for being a pushover.

They make it two miles outside of the city before Dean pulls over onto the shoulder, wheels digging into the soft grass. When they hit gravel, Sam wakes with a startle, snorting until he sits up. “Relax,” Dean yawns, patting the top of the bench. “Cas wants to stargaze.”

“At four in the morning?” Sam complains, yawning deeply. “Can you even see the stars right now?”

“Look outside,” Dean points.

The engine cuts off, and the headlights extinguish. Car doors slam in the dark on a barren stretch of highway, and Dean and Castiel step into the field with Sam following sluggishly. Together, they look to the sky.

Dean is immediately floored by the utter vastness of it, pinpricks of white dotting the blackness of the heavens, constellation upon constellation spread out and disappearing below the horizon, endless. The few times Dean ever bothered to watch the stars, it had never been as lonesome as this, vast and dark and cold. He can see everything, even with Raton’s lights at their back.

If he’s crying, no one will be the wiser.

“That’s where I was,” Castiel says. He points with a golden hand to their right, towards seven bright stars arranged in an hourglass shape, with one off to the side; smaller, less vibrant stars form its club and shield. On its belt, though, are two stars. The centermost one is gone, replaced by black sky. Vivid, but something is missing. Something integral.

Up there is Castiel’s home. Dean doesn’t know why he wanted to keep him away from that.

“It’s beautiful,” Sam says. Mist escapes his mouth, the November air even colder in the desert. “Do you miss it? Being up there.”

It takes him a minute, but Castiel finally answers, all while lacing Dean’s fingers with his own. His palm is warm, and Dean can’t help but hold on tighter. “I do,” Castiel admits, “but I’m starting to think of this as my new home.”

Dean smiles, and somehow, their hands entwined, he knows Castiel is doing the same.

-+-

Escondida is dusty in a way that seeps under Dean’s skin the longer the day goes on. As the night falls, the temperatures plummet from the sixties into the thirties, afternoon warmth replaced with a cold that rattles even Castiel’s bones. For a man made of heat, he’s frigid to Dean’s touch, like the absence of the sun has drained the light from him.

Granted, part of that may be because Castiel also insisted on not wearing a shirt while they walked through the fields, mostly to expose his wings without ripping any of his shirts. Whatever helps him navigate, Dean figures, or it could be that he’s showing off to an audience of two and a field full of sleeping cows. Looking at him makes Dean want to offer him a coat, specifically Sam’s, just to keep him from shivering. Despite the chill, Castiel still glows, their beacon in the night.

Which, in retrospect, might not be the best of methods for saying covert.

“Chupacabras are like demented vampires,” Sam explains, both hands on his pistol while Dean follows. “They’ll attack the throat and drain the body and then just move onto the next one. The bigger the target, the more likely they’ll take it down.”

“And they’ll attack these… bovines?” Castiel asks just as they pass a sleeping cow, standing upright; it stirs when his wings brush against it, but otherwise doesn’t move.

“They’re packing a lot of blood.” Dean shrugs. A cow stomps, rustling the grass. “But if it’s taking out several in a night, then it’s starving.”

Why the chupacabras are attacking humans, though, is the question. A few cows go missing from time and no one bats an eye, but after a farmer and his son die five miles from any sort of civilization? There’s not even a coroner in Escondida, and with limited time, he and Sam didn’t even bother to look over the bodies, knowing full and well what they were looking at just from the description.

Everything fits, down to the location. That doesn’t make it any less terrifying, though, especially in the dark and in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but sand and dead grass and cattle as far as he can see.

It catches up to Sam before Dean can even get a shot off. From the grass, the chupacabra launches into the air and tackles Sam, claws ripping into his jacket and likely piercing skin. Sam drops his gun in shock, leaving Dean to fire blindly, the muzzle-flash lighting his way. If he’s hitting the chupacabra, he has no clue. Adrenaline drives him on, though, even after he’s out of bullets and Sam is shrieking, hands on the chupacabra’s throat in an attempt to shove it away.

Jaws snap. Dean casts his pistol aside just as glowing white eyes turn in his direction, and the chupacabra snaps its bloody, fanged maw in his direction. It doesn’t get far, though. The minute it hurls itself into the air, something sharp and clanging slices it clean through the middle, leaving a wave of blood and viscera to dye the sand.

Dean wipes the blood from his eyes and mouth, just in time to see Castiel standing between them, wings constructed now of solid steel, feathers dripping red. At his sides, the chupacabra lies dead, split in half, bone and entrails exposed. Sam, meanwhile, frantically checks himself over for injuries; his hand comes away bloody, and reality sets in.

Castiel just cut a chupacabra in half with his wing. Thankfully, the night masks Dean’s sudden hard-on.

“Here,” Dean announces, kneeling at Sam’s side while Castiel glows, a low hum resonating from him while he stands guard. Sam moves willingly, and Dean’s hands find Sam’s back, helping to lift him up. There’s a massive hole in his jacket, but his shoulder underneath has fared better. The wound might be gnarly enough to leave a scar, but it’s stitchable. _Thank god._ “Hey, it’s not that bad.”

“Stings like a bitch,” Sam complains, clutching his arm. “Sure there aren’t any more?”

“I don’t sense anything else,” Castiel says. His wings are softer now, made of actual feathers, but still stained at the tips; white dots dance across the surface, swirling pleasantly, almost hypnotic.

That’s good. Really good, actually. Now they won’t have to walk back to the car with the fear of being watched. “Can’t believe there was just one,” Sam wheezes as Dean helps him stand. “They normally travel in packs.”

“Maybe we’re lucky,” Dean hopes aloud. Still, they should stay a day to make sure, before they get their hopes up. Stragglers aren’t out of the question, and it gives them enough time to recover and for Dean to have a conversation with his hormones. So a guy just cut a monster in half—what was so impressive about that, really?

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he’ll wake up with a clearer head and more sense, and he can wash the blood from his skin. For now, he hoists Sam’s arm around his shoulder and lets Castiel lead, shining wings lighting the way.

-+-

Sam passes out around two in the morning, long after Dean has stitched his shoulder back together and taught Castiel exactly how to pierce the skin without creating more scars in the process. A few Ibuprofen and an ice pack, and Sam is out, giving Dean enough time to take Castiel by the wrist and drag him outside.

Three lamps light the entirety of San Miguel Inn’s empty parking lot, and across the intersection, several more illuminate sleepy businesses and an even sleepier road. Dean shoves Castiel up against the ice machine, Castiel’s wings tucked away for now. Both of them are still bloody and there’s a fleck of something squishy behind Castiel’s ear, but Dean still shoves his hands in his hair anyway, drawing him into the roughest kiss he can manage, all teeth and spit and groans. Castiel moans against him, opened mouthed and hungry. Dean shoves his legs between Castiel’s thighs, just to feel him writhe.

“Dean,” Castiel gasps after a long minute, hands digging into the back of Dean’s blood-soaked shirt. He nips Dean’s earlobe, sucks the skin beneath his ear, and Dean melts. “Dean, I feel—”

“Yeah,” Dean huffs. With shaking hands, he manages to lift Castiel, sitting him down atop the ice machine with a thud. “Yeah, me too.”

This time when Dean kisses his throat, Castiel moans, body shuddering in Dean’s grasp; it’s not an orgasm, but close enough, and just from kissing. Dean can’t imagine what he’d do if he were naked. “I want—” Castiel swallows, breathless. “More, more—”

“I got you,” Dean soothes. “I got you, Cas.”

Somehow, despite Dean’s lust-clouded brain, they make it back into their room, quieter this time. They’re too dirty for the bed, and Sam is still asleep; deep a sleeper as he is, Sam doesn’t need to be scarred from waking up and witnessing them in flagrante. Their only savior is the shower pressure, and Dean barely manages to keep from slamming the door the minute he and Castiel rush into the bathroom.

Flipping the light on only sends his heart into his throat deeper. There, he can see the flush in Castiel’s cheeks and the erratic rise and fall of his chest, and the blood soaking his skin, all the way to his waistband. A gross and unsanitary wet dream, but Dean can’t keep himself from kissing whatever clean skin he can find.

“This isn’t how I wanted it,” Dean babbles, reaching over to start the shower, just to steady his hands. Ripping his shirt over his head, he slips off his shoes and goes for his zipper. Castiel’s hands on him don’t help, and neither do his lips, but Dean still tries to get himself naked. Blood never settles well on his skin, and he itches to wash himself clean, just as much as he craves Castiel’s kiss, like it’s the only thing that can cleanse him.

“Wanted to woo you, or at least talk about it.” Hand gripping Castiel’s wrist, Dean pulls him under the spray, afterward shutting the curtain in haste. “Y’know, a nice dinner, flowers—”

“Dean.” Castiel rears back, one hand on Dean’s shoulder, a finger to his lips. All Dean can do is stare, flustered and bewildered. “Shut up and kiss me.”

“Can do,” Dean laughs, and dives in.

Hands wander as moans clash, and beneath them, the water runs red, pounding on Dean’s back and washing him clean. The closer they rush to orgasm, the more complicated the situation seems. Beds are easier; beds don’t have hard edges and sharp corners, nor do they pose a drowning risk if done incorrectly. No one needs a concussion or to crack their skull on the tiling, and no one needs to explain how it happened, either.

They can play this safe. It isn’t like Dean hasn’t done it before, fucking someone in the shower with only a curtain and a slick wall to keep them steady. But a quick fuck is the opposite of what Castiel needs, and blow jobs have always worked in everyone’s favor.

“Let’s get these off,” Dean says, sinking to his knees, hands gripping the waistband of Castiel’s water-soaked jeans. In the rush, Dean forgot about the rest of their clothes, and Castiel’s pants were ruined from the blood, anyway.

Castiel moves almost automatically, guided by Dean’s gentle hands and the quick nips he delivers to bare skin as it’s exposed. His jeans and boxers slump in a heap on the shower floor, and it’s only then that Dean gets to look at him—really look. He finds himself at eye level with his cock, thick and half-hard and uncut, framed by a thatch of coarse hair at the base, and Dean has never wanted anything in his mouth more.

“You can tell me to stop if you don’t like it,” Dean soothes, cupping Castiel’s hips in his hands. Gently, he kisses the underside of Castiel’s cock, just to feel him blood-warm against his lips. “But it feels good, trust me.”

“I trust you,” Castiel whispers, rougher and pitched lower than Dean has ever heard. A thrill shoots to Dean’s cock, twitching between his legs. If only they had a bed, then Dean could do this properly, could spread him out, take his time, and make Castiel come the old fashioned way, hands fisted into rumpled sheets and head thrown back in ecstasy.

But they can make this work. Quite spectacularly, too, once he peels Castiel’s foreskin back and takes him into his mouth. Just the tip at first, mostly to gauge his reaction. It’s a miracle Castiel doesn’t punch a hole in the wall with that first touch, but his head does make a sharp noise when he throws his head back. Hopefully, they won’t wake anyone up before this is over.

Castiel pulses warmer against his tongue the deeper Dean takes him. He smells of musk and sweat and blood, three things that really shouldn’t turn Dean on as much as they do. Briefly, Dean slides back to lap at the slit, earning a rush of precome on his tongue. “How’s that?” he asks with a grin; in return, Castiel grips his hair by the root. “You wanna keep going?”

“I might cry if you stop,” Castiel breathes.

That’s all the answer Dean needs. Inch by inch, Dean takes Castiel into his mouth until Castiel smothers a moan behind his hand. The pace moves sometimes fast and hurried, Castiel thrusting into Dean’s hand with his mouth’s absence, and sometimes slow, teasing, with Dean swallowing him down to the back of his throat, gag reflex be damned.

And then Castiel starts talking. “You could’ve been hurt,” he sighs, both hands atop Dean’s scalp while Dean laps at his cockhead. “I saw it coming for you, and I didn’t know what to do. It could’ve killed both of you.”

“But it didn’t,” Dean replies with a rasp after pulling back. “You saved us.”

“I didn’t think I’d— _Dean, please_ —have to.” He stops to tug harder, and Dean presses his fist to the base of his cock to keep himself from coming. “You’re so strong, so brave in the face of danger—”

“Cas,” Dean mumbles around Castiel’s cock, eventually pulling back. “You gotta stop talking like that.”

“But you are.” Swiftly, Castiel pulls Dean up by his armpits, throwing his arms around his neck. His mouth tastes just as clean as the rest of him. “Beautiful,” Castiel whispers, mouthing across Dean’s jaw and nipping his earlobe. Dean can just barely keep from moaning. “A masterpiece, even your scars.”

“I’m not,” Dean muffles against Castiel’s lips. Castiel swats his ass, just hard enough to garner a flustered yelp. “Cas, you can’t just—”

“You deserve love,” Castiel declares. Dean’s heart stutters and his legs feel weak. “You deserve to be loved, most of all.”

“You don’t mean that.” Whatever intention Dean had earlier has fallen by the wayside. This might as well be a confession, one Dean isn’t ready to face, not while they’re naked and Castiel is still achingly hard. The heat’s been replaced with chills, passion foregone for fear. Only a few weeks after Castiel’s fall, and Dean finally understands what this feeling is, this all-encompassing, throat-constricting love that Castiel exudes just by existing.

And now, Dean can admit he truly feels the same. From proximity, from care, from genuine interest, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that Castiel is here, and Castiel saved both of them, and Castiel isn’t going anywhere, at least for now. “You are loved,” Castiel says, palming Dean’s face. “You have always been loved.”

“I think I…” Dean tries to get the words out; Castiel kisses them out of his mouth.

It’s Castiel that gets pushed into the shower wall chest-first with Dean behind him, back arched in a sinuous bow. “Hold onto me,” Dean instructs, still choked, but Castiel just nods and grips Dean’s wrist, Dean’s arm wrapped around his middle. From there, it’s a mess of limbs, but they make it work, Castiel’s legs pressed together and Dean thrusting between Castiel’s thighs while Castiel teases his cock when it peeks through with just his fingers.

Intimate can’t describe it. This is better than a bed, better than roses and expensive dinners and kisses under the stars. This is love, rich and true.

“Cas,” Dean huffs and reaches around with his other hand to fist Castiel’s cock, red and leaking. A few more thrusts, a squeeze from Castiel’s hand, and he’s on the edge. “Cas, come with me, c’mon—”

“Dean,” Castiel gasps, and all at once, gravity ceases to exist. Water floats, the lights flicker and dim, and the only thing keeping Dean tethered to the ground is Castiel’s touch. Somewhere in the awe of Castiel’s rapture, he misses his own orgasm, come spilling between Castiel’s thighs and dripping onto the tiled floor. Castiel’s face, though, makes up for it, and there’ll be more to enjoy in the future.

It ends just as quietly as it began, but this time with a water-stained ceiling and an ache resonating through Dean’s entire body, bone-deep. “Holy shit,” Dean breathes, muffling his words into Castiel’s nape. “Holy shit, you broke the earth.”

Castiel swallows, light on his feet, but still mirthful. “I can do more than that.”

Dean’s heart skips; he can’t wait to find out.

-+-

Castiel leaves on the first Thursday of January.

It shouldn’t feel like a knife being twisted in his heart, but Dean still aches that evening, watching Castiel organize his belongings one last time. There are still suits and shirts hung up in his wardrobe, candles and statues and figurines all arranged on shelves and the dresser, and his trench coat hangs on the back of a pushed-in chair. “I can’t believe you’re going back,” Sam says in the doorway, choked up, but considerably less misty-eyed than Dean.

Dean, meanwhile, can’t fully process it, even hours later. Sure, he knew Castiel was planning to go home. The signs were all there: distancing himself for the past week, limiting physical contact, fewer conversations and even fewer glances, like he was trying to make his departure hurt less.

It’ll never not hurt. For years after, Dean will always feel like part of his soul is missing. Three months with a star, with an unfathomable force of nature, and Dean will never forget him.

“I want to see my family again,” is all Castiel musters, sitting on the edge of his bed, head in his hands. “I’m not sure if I’ll stay, but… for a while, I’d like to be what I once was.”

“I thought you liked it here, though,” Dean mutters, petulant, almost like a child. Thankfully, Sam doesn’t give him any looks; Dean knows he’s just as devastated, but for different reasons. Castiel may be Sam’s best friend, but he’s the love of Dean’s life, and he always will be. “Did we do something wrong?”

Castiel looks up at him, both of them, at first scornful. His expression falters, though, eventually morphing into something more sheepish and self-defeating. It doesn’t make Dean feel any better. “You did nothing of the sort.” Standing, Castiel crosses the room and takes one of each of their hands in his. He’s warm, like he always is, but cooler now. If Dean knew any better, he’d think it was reluctance. “This is my choice. And it was the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make in my life.”

“You shouldn’t have to make it,” Dean says, somewhere near a growl. “Cas, you’re like family to us now, and you’ve been there when we needed you. You can’t just… We need you here, man. Not up in the sky where no one even talks to you!”

“Dean,” Sam scolds.

Dean ignores him. Ignores everything but Castiel’s face and the worry there, switching to terror when Dean takes a step back, into the doorway. “You were just getting settled,” Dean says. Just barely, his voice begins to tremble. “And now you’re gonna fuck off?”

“I told you the moment we met, I wanted to go home,” Castiel says, suddenly spiteful. Dean’s anger only deepens. “If you didn’t want to get attached, you should’ve let me die.”

“You know what?” Dean shakes off Castiel’s hand with force, digging his fingers into his sweatpants. “Fuck you, for ever thinking I cared, because I guess it means jack shit coming from me.”

“Dean,” both Sam and Castiel call out, but Dean stomps away before either of them can follow, hands in his hair and lower lip between his teeth.

He locks himself in a storage room, the first door he can find that’s far enough out of sight, and muffles his despair into his fist, unobserved. It doesn’t make him feel any better, but at least now, he doesn’t have to feel anything at all.

It takes him an hour, maybe two at the most, to leave his sanctuary, and only under the premise of goodbyes. His heart aches just thinking about it—what if Castiel left because of him after all, because Dean can’t control his temper and wears his heart on his sleeve? No matter how petty it is, he can’t live with that guilt, knowing they parted like that. Castiel never did anything wrong. All he wanted to do is go home, and Dean can’t blame him. Given the same circumstances, and Dean would want nothing more than to take to the sky.

But Castiel isn’t going back to his family, not really. At least, not in a way Dean can understand. Alnilam is situated thousands of miles away from any other stars, and Castiel has even admitted that he’s never been able to communicate with anyone. What’s he going back to? Isolation for a few more billion years, until the universe collapses in on itself?

Dean’s stomach hurts the more he mulls it over. This is worse than death. At least in death, Dean knows he would never see Castiel again. Having him alive, but out of his arms for the rest of his life is a wound never fit to heal.

Sam and Castiel are standing on the roof by the time Dean finds them, Castiel shirtless and barefoot while Sam has his hands fisted in his jacket pockets. Snow lines the rooftop and the miniature gargoyles placed on every edge, with more beginning to fall, thicker now; wet clumps stick to Castiel’s hair, and Dean aches to brush them away, just one more time. _God_ , Dean prays, eyes wet and ears cold, _let me keep him. Let me do this again, right this time_.

Today, Castiel’s wings are made of clouds, fluffy and white with icicles hanging off of the perfectly healed bones. It only took two months, but he can fly again. For the past week, Castiel has been testing himself, trying to see how far he can climb before he falls. Every time he headed to the roof, Dean busied himself with whatever he could until he forgot about it, and life went on as normal.

But today is the day. The last Dean wants is to see him go.

“I want you to have this,” Dean says, ignoring Sam’s pained eyes on him. Castiel shares the same expression, a silver-white tear threatening to spill over. From his robe pocket, Dean pulls out a length of cord strung through an onyx band, polished to mirror-shine. Castiel takes it with trembling fingers, holding the ring in his palm. Sam remains silent, but Dean can sense he knows what this means. “My mom had a ring collection. I wore it for years but… I just thought you’d like it.”

Castiel’s wings ruffle, and Dean swears the clouds begin to weep. “Thank you,” Castiel whispers. Nimbly, Dean slips it over Castiel’s head, letting the ring rest against his chest, where it shines in the snow.

After that, impulse takes over. Dean gravitates to Castiel before he can think better of himself and draws his arms around his neck. Warmth bleeds off of Castiel’s skin, and just briefly, his wings close around them both, obscuring the hands clinging to the small of Dean’s back inside his robe. “I’m sorry,” Dean sighs, clinging tighter. “I didn’t mean any of it, I swear.”

“I know.” In the shadow of his wings, Castiel kisses just beneath his eye, gathering Dean’s sadness on his lips. Another peck, this one to his mouth, and Dean doesn’t bother to hold back his tears any longer. “This isn’t goodbye, Dean.”

 _It is_ , Dean thinks, eyes pinched shut. _You’re never gonna come back, and all I’ll have is your room to remember you by._

“Go,” Dean says, going for cheery. His grin falters, though, even after he pulls back to pat Castiel’s shoulders. His wings uncurl, and Dean is left with nothing but the snow. “Be bright. Sure everyone misses you up there.”

“I’ll miss you two the most,” Castiel says, lips turned with the slightest hint of a smile.

He and Sam say their goodbyes with equally hushed words, and Castiel whispers something quiet against Sam’s forehead. Whatever it is, Dean doesn’t listen, for privacy’s sake. Some things, they’ll always keep secret, but Dean’s love for Castiel will always be known.

Castiel’s takeoff, unlike his landing, is graceful and elegant: snow fans out when he flaps his wings once, twice, and the air parts above him, making way for his exit. He ascends without ever looking back, or at least not that Dean can see, and he pierces the clouds without a sound. The snow falls, the wind blows, and Dean is alone, just when the hole in his soul was beginning to heal.

It takes both of them another few minutes to look away from the sky and towards each other. They’re both crying. Sam is more distraught, though, at least on the outside. Yet despite everything, the loss, the sadness, the anger, Dean feels… nothing. Just empty, hollow as the day before Castiel arrived.

Everything back to normal, as it should be.

“You wanna help me take down the Christmas stuff?” Sam asks.

Sam doesn’t deserve to be hurt by this either; neither of them do.

“Yeah,” Dean mutters, wiping the snow from his hair. “Yeah, c’mon. Tree’s still up.”

 

“ _New this evening, a mystery that has plagued scientists and astronomers alike has finally been solved. The missing star from Orion’s Belt, Alnilam, is now the center of our attention in the sky tonight_ …”

-+-

The world doesn’t end after Castiel’s departure. The sky is still blue, the wind stills blows. Storms still tear apart cities. Hurricanes sweep the coast. Fires wreak havoc. It rains, and rains, and rains, and yet, nothing changes. Monsters continue to kill, and Dean and Sam continue to clean up after them. Set families straight, bury the victims, torch the dead.

Everything is right on its axis, and Dean pretends he’s okay, that he’s alright without Castiel.

Hunting sets his mind at ease though, morbid as it may be. They drive from Lebanon to Bangor, from Bangor to Natchez, from Natchez to Pacific Palisades, and back again. More scars, more stories to tell, more sleepless nights and alcohol than food. But it gets better, mostly. It’s not until March that he can rest easily again without Castiel in his dreams, and not until April, when the snow thaws and the flowers begin to bloom, that Dean can go about his day without imagining Castiel at his side.

Dean doesn’t pray, not often. But still, half a year later, his last thought of the night and the only wish he’ll ever make on a star, is that Castiel comes back to him.

The telescope is in better shape than it was when they moved in. Some nights when Dean looks through it, he can actually see deep into the outer reaches of their galaxy, viewing planets and stars and sometimes a comet or two.

When they have nothing to do between cases, sometimes Sam will bring out the star charts Castiel created and Dean will follow him to the roof, just to see the stars as they move, the Kansas sky stretched out above them. Sometimes if Dean pretends hard enough, he can still hear Castiel with them, rattling off histories and what the Earth looks like from home.

Orion shines brightly every night. Just before Dean leaves for bed, he sneaks one last look, and the sight of Castiel warms him down to his soul, even brighter than he was before. A wonder in the sky.

Summer’s heat sets in in early June, just as they’re lighting a grave on fire outside of Dodge City. Humidity seeps through Dean’s shirt while Sam throws in their last matchbook, and the gasoline goes up in flames, bringing with it the scent of burning bones and wet dirt. “You really loved him, didn’t you?” Sam asks, solemn but curious.

Months ago, Dean would’ve yelled and stomped off and never addressed the question again, but now, he just shrugs and shoves his hands in his pockets. The fire warms his face, but his bones feel cold and heavy. What they had was more than love; Castiel completed him, filled in the spots he thought were broken, eased the burden of living with blood on his hands, just a little. Nights weren’t so cold, and the future didn’t look so bleak.

For a while, they were all happy, and Dean had all he wanted.

“Yeah,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Yeah, I did.”

-+-

Next to a spray-painted van with no tires, the Impala sits in a dirt lot about a mile from the old community cemetery, the moon reflecting off of her hood in the dark. While the grave smolders in the distance, Dean leans against the trunk, a beer in hand with Sam at his side, and watches the stars. Not the night for a meteor shower, but Dean sees a few anyway, with how far away they are from town.

“There’s Taurus,” Sam points out. Dean follows his finger, bottle pressed to his lips. A quiet beat, and then, “It’s just not the same without him narrating.”

“I know,” Dean says through a yawn. Lebanon is three hours away; maybe they should hunker down here for the night. “Shoulda really forged all his education documents. Woulda been a great professor.”

Sam laughs, resting his hips against the bumper. The mirth, however brief, is short-lived when Dean looks up towards Orion, expecting to see all three stars of the Belt in alignment, as they have been for months.

Sam is the first to point it out, finger jammed towards the centermost star. Or, lack thereof. “He’s gone,” he says, near-hysteric.

Dean can’t get behind the wheel fast enough.

He doesn’t know where they’re going, or why. If Castiel did fall again, he could be anywhere. He might not even be on Earth. But home is the safest bet. Home is where Castiel knows to go by mapping the stars, and home is where they’ll be. But if he’s not there—it could be weeks, months, maybe years until they hear from him.

The waiting might kill Dean before anything else.

The only good thing about driving at two in the morning is that they’re the only ones on the road for miles. In this case, they barrel down two-lanes at close to a hundred in the dead of night; hopefully, they can blend into the darkness before a cop catches up to them.

The sun is still under the horizon by the time Dean pulls into the garage, barely giving Sam enough time to brace himself before he throws it into park, nowhere near its designated spot. Something feels different now; the air itself feels different. Not entirely like hope, but more physical, like a presence. Maybe someone broke the warding and got inside, or maybe the feds have finally found their hideout.

But it’s not sinister, and Sam can sense it too. A sensation Dean never fully registered, but one he remembers now, deep in his chest. Like inhaling ozone, like all of the air is gone, replaced with unbridled adoration, like embracing love itself.

Castiel is already here—Castiel came home.

He’s not in the bedrooms, nor is he in the shower or the library, or even the kitchen. No matter where he or Sam search, he’s nowhere to be seen. At least, until they reach the roof. Out of breath, Dean stops just before the door with his hands on his knees, his heart threatening to leap from his throat, or rip out of him entirely. Sam, to his credit, pats him on the back and finishes his sprint.

After a long, empty second, Sam calls out, “Dean,” with exasperation, but not panicked. No imminent threat of death, then. After six months of separation, Dean doesn’t think he could bear to see Castiel dead.

 _You got this_ , Dean tells himself, shaking his head. _Get up and walk out there._

Standing next to Sam, Castiel shines even brighter now than he did the day they first met, midnight wings and all. Once again, he’s naked, but Dean can’t find it in himself to care anymore, just as long as he’s there. Those same blue eyes, that same tanned skin, the same mussed hair—he hasn’t changed. The only thing different is the necklace he wears around his neck, an onyx ring hanging loosely from the thread.

He kept it. He actually kept it. Dean can’t quite process that. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to speak. Castiel hugs him instead, cripplingly tight, and Dean clutches him back. Dean still smells of grave dirt and embers, but he can take care of that later.

This is what he needs. Right here, right now. “You came back,” Dean gasps, burying his face in the curve of Castiel’s neck. He might be crying; he can’t really tell. “You ass, you came back.”

“I couldn’t stand it,” Castiel mumbles. He grips Dean’s jacket, raking his nails down his spine. “Being alone. All I kept thinking about was you two, and our conversations, and…” Pulling away, he palms Dean’s face a bit too forcefully, but Dean can’t bring himself to care. “I needed to see you again.”

This time, when Castiel kisses him, he doesn’t taste the despair of separation. He just tastes Castiel and the promise dripping from his lips, the words he never got to say, but now can. “Don’t you dare leave again,” Dean blurts. Castiel nods. “Don’t you dare leave me when I…”

“I know,” Castiel whispers, kissing him again. “I love you too.”

Now, Dean definitely knows he’s crying. “Good,” he sobs, holding Castiel tight again, this time openly weeping. “God, look what you did, you made me cry.”

“You don’t have to, not anymore,” Castiel laughs. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Hey,” Sam says somewhere close to Castiel’s back. Through tear-blurred eyes, Dean can just see him, looking dejectedly left out of the conversation. “Can I get in here too?”

“Yes, Sam,” Castiel chuckles. Just barely, Castiel makes room and lets Sam slide in, his arms around the both of them. “I missed you too.”

This is what Dean needs, finally—what he’s wanted all his life, and even more after Castiel left. A family, a home, and someone he can share his life with that isn’t just his brother.

Out of all of the people in the universe, it had to be the one star that would fall for him. Dean can’t even begin to understand that, but he’s grateful all the same.

 _This is love_ , he thinks, heart racing and Castiel in his arms. _This is all I need_.

**Author's Note:**

> Wahoo! I'm so excited to share this since I've been sitting on it for months. This is my entry for the 2018 DeanCas PineFest challenge! I just wanna thank Bexy for betaing and [Dmitri for his wonderful art](https://feathergrave.tumblr.com/post/171484067665/if-love-was-a-river-aaaaaah-my-goodness-i-had-the), as with y'all, this wouldn't be what it is :D. I'm really proud of this, so I hope y'all like it! 
> 
> Title is from the Alan Jackson song.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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